New Burlesques by Bret Harte

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  • 1902
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by Bret Harte

August, 2000 [Etext #2278]

RUPERT THE RESEMBLER [After Rupert of Hentzau and Prisoner of Zenda] THE STOLEN CIGAR CASE By A. CO–N D–LE





When I state that I was own brother to Lord Burleydon, had an income of two thousand a year, could speak all the polite languages fluently, was a powerful swordsman, a good shot, and could ride anything from an elephant to a clotheshorse, I really think I have said enough to satisfy any feminine novel-reader of Bayswater or South Kensington that I was a hero. My brother’s wife, however, did not seem to incline to this belief.

“A more conceited, self-satisfied little cad I never met than you,” she said. “Why don’t you try to do something instead of sneering at others who do? You never take anything seriously–except yourself, which isn’t worth it. You are proud of your red hair and peaked nose just because you fondly believe that you got them from the Prince of Trulyruralania, and are willing to think evil of your ancestress to satisfy your snobbish little soul. Let me tell you, sir, that there was no more truth about that than there was in that silly talk of her partiality for her husband’s red-haired gamekeeper in Scotland. Ah! that makes you start–don’t it? But I have always observed that a mule is apt to remember only the horse side of his ancestry!”

Whenever my pretty sister-in-law talks in this way I always try to forget that she came of a family far inferior to our own, the Razorbills. Indeed, her people–of the Nonconformist stock–really had nothing but wealth and rectitude, and I think my brother Bob, in his genuine love for her, was willing to overlook the latter for the sake of the former.

My pretty sister-in-law’s interest in my affairs always made me believe that she secretly worshiped me–although it was a fact, as will be seen in the progress of this story, that most women blushed on my addressing them. I used to say it “was the reflection of my red hair on a transparent complexion,” which was rather neat– wasn’t it? And subtle? But then, I was always saying such subtle things.

“My dear Rose,” I said, laying down my egg spoon (the egg spoon really had nothing to do with this speech, but it imparted such a delightfully realistic flavor to the scene), “I’m not to blame if I resemble the S’helpburgs.”

“It’s your being so beastly proud of it that I object to!” she replied. “And for Heaven’s sake, try to BE something, and not merely resemble things! The fact is you resemble too much–you’re ALWAYS resembling. You resemble a man of fashion, and you’re not; a wit, and you’re not; a soldier, a sportsman, a hero–and you’re none of ’em. Altogether, you’re not in the least convincing. Now, listen! There’s a good chance for you to go as our attache with Lord Mumblepeg, the new Ambassador to Cochin China. In all the novels, you know, attaches are always the confidants of Grand Duchesses, and know more state secrets than their chiefs; in real life, I believe they are something like a city clerk with a leaning to private theatricals. Say you’ll go! Do!”

“I’ll take a few months’ holiday first,” I replied, “and then,” I added in my gay, dashing way, “if the place is open–hang it if I don’t go!”

“Good old bounder!” she said, “and don’t think too much of that precious Prince Rupert. He was a bad lot.”

She blushed again at me–as her husband entered.

“Take Rose’s advice, Rupert, my boy,” he said, “and go!”

And that is how I came to go to Trulyruralania. For I secretly resolved to take my holiday in traveling in that country and trying, as dear Lady Burleydon put it, really to be somebody, instead of resembling anybody in particular. A precious lot SHE knew about it!



You go to Trulyruralania from Charing Cross. In passing through Paris we picked up Mlle. Beljambe, who was going to Kohlslau, the capital of Trulyruralania, to marry the Grand Duke Michael, who, however, as I was informed, was in love with the Princess Flirtia. She blushed on seeing me–but, I was told afterwards, declined being introduced to me on any account. However, I thought nothing of this, and went on to Bock, the next station to Kohlslau. At the little inn in the forest I was informed I was just in time to see the coronation of the new king the next day. The landlady and her daughter were very communicative, and, after the fashion of the simple, guileless stage peasant, instantly informed me what everybody was doing, and at once explained the situation. She told me that the Grand Duke Michael–or Black Michael as he was called– himself aspired to the throne, as well as to the hand of the Princess Flirtia, but was hated by the populace, who preferred the young heir, Prince Rupert; because he had the hair and features of the dynasty of the S’helpburgs, “which,” she added, “are singularly like your own.”

“But is red hair so very peculiar here?” I asked.

“Among the Jews–yes, sire! I mean yes, SIR,” she corrected herself. “You seldom see a red-headed Jew.”

“The Jews!” I repeated in astonishment.

“Of course you know the S’helpburgs are descended directly from Solomon–and have indeed some of his matrimonial peculiarities,” she said, blushing.

I was amazed–but recalled myself. “But why do they call the Duke of Kohlslau Black Michael?” I asked carelessly.

“Because be is nearly black, sir. You see, when the great Prince Rupert went abroad in the old time he visited England, Scotland, and Africa. They say he married an African lady there–and that the Duke is really more in the direct line of succession than Prince Rupert.”

But here the daughter showed me to my room. She blushed, of course, and apologized for not bringing a candle, as she thought my hair was sufficiently illuminating. “But,” she added with another blush, “I do SO like it.”

I replied by giving her something of no value,–a Belgian nickel which wouldn’t pass in Bock, as I had found to my cost. But my hair had evidently attracted attention from others, for on my return to the guest-room a stranger approached me, and in the purest and most precise German–the Court or ‘Olland Hof speech– addressed me:

“Have you the red hair of the fair King or the hair of your father?”

Luckily I was able to reply with the same purity and precision: “I have both the hair of the fair King and my own. But I have not the hair of my father nor of Black Michael, nor of the innkeeper nor the innkeeper’s wife. The red HEIR of the fair King would be a son.”

Possibly this delicate mot on the approaching marriage of the King was lost in the translation, for the stranger strode abruptly away. I learned, however, that the King was actually then in Bock, at the castle a few miles distant, in the woods. I resolved to stroll thither.

It was a fine old mediaeval structure. But as the singular incidents I am about to relate combine the romantic and adventurous atmosphere of the middle ages with all the appliances of modern times, I may briefly state that the castle was lit by electricity, bad fire-escapes on each of the turrets, four lifts, and was fitted up by one of the best West End establishments. The sanitary arrangements were excellent, and the drainage of the most perfect order, as I had reason to know personally later. I was so affected by the peaceful solitude that I lay down under a tree and presently fell asleep. I was awakened by the sound of voices, and, looking up, beheld two men bending over me. One was a grizzled veteran, and the other a younger dandyfied man; both were dressed in shooting suits.

“Never saw such a resemblance before in all my life,” said the elder man. “‘Pon my soul! if the King hadn’t got shaved yesterday because the Princess Flirtia said his beard tickled her, I’d swear it was he!”

I could not help thinking how lucky it was–for this narrative– that the King HAD shaved, otherwise my story would have degenerated into a mere Comedy of Errors. Opening my eyes, I said boldly:

“Now that you are satisfied who I resemble, gentlemen, perhaps you will tell me who you are?”

“Certainly,” said the elder curtly. “I am Spitz–a simple colonel of his Majesty’s, yet, nevertheless, the one man who runs this whole dynasty–and this young gentleman is Fritz, my lieutenant. And you are–?”

“My name is Razorbill–brother to Lord Burleydon,” I replied calmly.

“Good heavens! another of the lot!” he muttered. Then, correcting himself, he said brusquely: “Any relation to that Englishwoman who was so sweet on the old Rupert centuries ago?”

Here, again, I suppose my sister-in-law would have had me knock down the foreign insulter of my English ancestress–but I colored to the roots of my hair, and even farther–with pleasure at this proof of my royal descent! And then a cheery voice was heard calling “Spitz!” and “Fritz!” through the woods.

“The King!” said Spitz to Fritz quickly. “He must not see him.”

“Too late,” said Fritz, as a young man bounded lightly out of the bushes.

I was thunderstruck! It was as if I had suddenly been confronted with a mirror–and beheld myself! Of course he was not quite so good-looking, or so tall, but he was still a colorable imitation! I was delighted.

Nevertheless, for a moment he did not seem to reciprocate my feeling. He stared at me, staggered back and passed his hand across his forehead. “Can it be,” he muttered thickly, “that I’ve got ’em agin? Yet I only had–shingle glash!”

But Fritz quickly interposed.

“Your Majesty is all right–though,” he added in a lower voice, “let this be a warning to you for to-morrow! This gentleman is Mr. Razorbill–you know the old story of the Razorbills?–Ha! ha!”

But the King did not laugh; he extended his hand and said gently, “You are welcome–my cousin!” Indeed, my sister-in-law would have probably said that–dissipated though he was–he was the only gentleman there.

“I have come to see the coronation, your Majesty,” I said.

“And you shall,” said the King heartily, “and shall go with us! The show can’t begin without us–eh, Spitz?” he added playfully, poking the veteran in the ribs, “whatever Michael may do!”

Then he linked his arms in Spitz’s and mine. “Let’s go to the hut– and have some supper and fizz,” he said gayly.

We went to the hut. We had supper. We ate and drank heavily. We danced madly around the table. Nevertheless I thought that Spitz and Fritz were worried by the King’s potations, and Spitz at last went so far as to remind his Majesty that they were to start early in the morning for Kohlslau. I noticed also that as the King drank his speech grew thicker and Spitz and Fritz exchanged glances. At last Spitz said with stern significance:

“Your Majesty has not forgotten the test invariably submitted to the King at his coronation?”

“Shertenly not,” replied the King, with his reckless laugh. “The King mush be able to pronounsh–name of his country–intel-lillil- gibly: mush shay (hic!): ‘I’m King of–King of–Tootoo-tooral- looral-anyer.'” He staggered, laughed, and fell under the table.

“He cannot say it!” gasped Fritz and Spitz in one voice. “He is lost!”

“Unless,” said Fritz suddenly, pointing at me with a flash of intelligence, “HE can personate him, and say it. Can you?” he turned to me brusquely.

It was an awful moment. I had been drinking heavily too, but I resolved to succeed. “I’m King of Trooly-rooly–” I murmured; but I could not master it–I staggered and followed the King under the table.

“Is there no one here,” roared Spitz, “who can shave thish dynasty, and shay ‘Tooral–‘? No! —- it! I mean ‘Trularlooral–‘” but he, too, lurched hopelessly forward.

“No one can say ‘Tooral-looral–‘” muttered Fritz; and, grasping Spitz in despair, they both rolled under the table.

How long we lay there, Heaven knows! I was awakened by Spitz playing the garden hose on me. He was booted and spurred, with Fritz by his side. The King was lying on a bench, saying feebly: “Blesh you, my chillen.”

“By politely acceding to Black Michael’s request to ‘try our one- and-six sherry,’ he has been brought to this condition,” said Spitz bitterly. “It’s a trick to keep him from being crowned. In this country if the King is crowned while drunk, the kingdom instantly reverts to a villain–no matter who. But in this case the villain is Black Michael. Ha! What say you, lad? Shall we frustrate the rascal, by having YOU personate the King?”

I was–well!–intoxicated at the thought! But what would my sister-in-law say? Would she–in her Nonconformist conscience– consider it strictly honorable? But I swept all scruples aside. A King was to be saved! “I will go,” I said. “Let us on to Kohlslau–riding like the wind!” We rode like the wind, furiously, madly. Mounted on a wild, dashing bay–known familiarly as the “Bay of Biscay” from its rough turbulence–I easily kept the lead. But our horses began to fail. Suddenly Spitz halted, clapped his hand to his head, and threw himself from his horse. “Fools!” he said, “we should have taken the train! It will get there an hour before we will!” He pointed to a wayside station where the 7.15 excursion train for Kohlslau was waiting.

“But how dreadfully unmediaeval!–What will the public say?” I began.

“Bother the public!” he said gruffly. “Who’s running this dynasty– you or I? Come!” With the assistance of Fritz he tied up my face with a handkerchief to simulate toothache, and then, with a shout of defiance, we three rushed madly into a closely packed third- class carriage.

Never shall I forget the perils, the fatigue, the hopes and fears of that mad journey. Panting, perspiring, packed together with cheap trippers, but exalted with the one hope of saving the King, we at last staggered out on the Kohlslau platform utterly exhausted. As we did so we heard a distant roar from the city. Fritz turned an ashen gray, Spitz a livid blue. “Are we too late?” he gasped, as we madly fought our way into the street, where shouts of “The King! The King!” were rending the air. “Can it be Black Michael?” But here the crowd parted, and a procession, preceded by outriders, flashed into the square. And there, seated in a carriage beside the most beautiful red-haired girl I had ever seen, was the King,–the King whom we had left two hours ago, dead drunk in the hut in the forest!



We reeled against each other aghast! Spitz recovered himself first. “We must fly!” he said hoarsely. “If the King has discovered our trick–we are lost!”

“But where shall we go?” I asked.

“Back to the hut.”

We caught the next train to Bock. An hour later we stood panting within the hut. Its walls and ceiling were splashed with sinister red stains. “Blood!” I exclaimed joyfully. “At last we have a real mediaeval adventure!”

“It’s Burgundy, you fool,” growled Spitz; “good Burgundy wasted!” At this moment Fritz appeared dragging in the hut-keeper.

“Where is the King?” demanded Spitz fiercely of the trembling peasant.

“He was carried away an hour ago by Black Michael and taken to the castle.”

“And when did he LEAVE the castle?” roared Spitz.

“He never left the castle, sir, and, alas! I fear never will, alive!” replied the man, shuddering.

We stared at each other! Spitz bit his grizzled mustache. “So,” he said bitterly, “Black Michael has simply anticipated us with the same game! We have been tricked. I knew it could not be the King whom they crowned! No!” he added quickly, “I see it all–it was Rupert of Glasgow!”

“Who is Rupert of Glasgow?” I cried.

“Oh, I really can’t go over all that family rot again,” grunted Spitz. “Tell him, Fritz.”

Then, taking me aside, Fritz delicately informed me that Rupert of Glasgow–a young Scotchman–claimed equally with myself descent from the old Rupert, and that equally with myself he resembled the King. That Michael had got possession of him on his arrival in the country, kept him closely guarded in the castle, and had hid his resemblance in a black wig and false mustache; that the young Scotchman, however, seemed apparently devoted to Michael and his plots; and there was undoubtedly some secret understanding between them. That it was evidently Michael’s trick to have the pretender crowned, and then, by exposing the fraud and the condition of the real King, excite the indignation of the duped people, and seat himself on the throne! “But,” I burst out, “shall this base-born pretender remain at Kohlslau beside the beautiful Princess Flirtia? Let us to Kohlslau at once and hurl him from the throne!”

“One pretender is as good as another,” said Spitz dryly. “But leave HIM to me. ‘Tis the King we must protect and succor! As for that Scotch springald, before midnight I shall have him kidnaped, brought back to his master in a close carriage, and you–YOU shall take his place at Kohlslau.”

“I will,” I said enthusiastically, drawing my sword; “but I have done nothing yet. Please let me kill something!”

“Aye, lad!” said Spitz, with a grim smile at my enthusiasm. “There’s a sheep in your path. Go out and cleave it to the saddle. And bring the saddle home!”

My sister-in-law might have thought me cruel–but I did it.


I know not how it was compassed, but that night Rupert of Glasgow was left bound and gagged against the door of the castle, and the night-bell pulled. And that night I was seated on the throne of the S’helpburgs. As I gazed at the Princess Flirtia, glowing in the characteristic beauty of the S’helpburgs, and admired her striking profile, I murmured softly and half audibly: “Her nose is as a tower that looketh toward Damascus.”

She looked puzzled, and knitted her pretty brows. “Is that poetry?” she asked.

“No” I said promptly. “It’s only part of a song of our great Ancestor.” As she blushed slightly, I playfully flung around her fair neck the jeweled collar of the Order of the S’helpburgs–three golden spheres pendant, quartered from the arms of Lombardy—with the ancient Syric motto, El Ess Dee.

She toyed with it a moment, and then said softly: “You have changed, Rupert. Do ye no ken hoo?”

I looked at her–as surprised at her dialect as at the imputation.

“You don’t talk that way, as you did. And you don’t say, ‘It WILL be twelve o’clock,’ when you mean, ‘It IS twelve o’clock,’ nor ‘I will be going out,’ when you mean ‘I AM.’ And you didn’t say, ‘Eh, sirs!’ or ‘Eh, mon,’ to any of the Court–nor ‘Hoot awa!’ nor any of those things. And,” she added with a divine little pout, “you haven’t told me I was ‘sonsie’ or ‘bonnie’ once.”

I could with difficulty restrain myself. Rage, indignation, and jealousy filled my heart almost to bursting. I understood it all; that rascally Scotchman had made the most of his time, and dared to get ahead of me! I did not mind being taken for the King, but to be confounded with this infernal descendant of a gamekeeper–was too much! Yet with a superhuman effort I remained calm–and even smiled.

“You are not well?” said the Princess earnestly. “I thought you were taking too much of the Strasbourg pie at supper! And you are not going, surely–so soon?” she added, as I rose.

“I must go at once,” I said. “I have forgotten some important business at Bock.”

“Not boar hunting again?” she said poutingly.

“No, I’m hunting a red dear,” I said with that playful subtlety which would make her take it as a personal compliment, though I was only thinking of that impostor, and longing to get at him, as I bowed and withdrew.

In another hour I was before Black Michael’s castle at Bock. These are lightning changes, I know–and the sovereignty of Trulyruralania WAS somewhat itinerant–but when a kingdom and a beautiful Princess are at stake, what are you to do? Fritz had begged me to take him along, but I arranged that he should come later, and go up unostentatiously in the lift. I was going by way of the moat. I was to succor the King, but I fear my real object was to get at Rupert of Glasgow.

I had noticed the day before that a large outside drain pipe, decreed by the Bock County Council, ran from the moat to the third floor of the donjon keep. I surmised that the King was imprisoned on that floor. Examining the pipe closely, I saw that it was really a pneumatic dispatch tube, for secretly conveying letters and dispatches from the castle through the moat beyond the castle walls. Its extraordinary size, however, gave me the horrible conviction that it was to be used to convey the dead body of the King to the moat. I grew cold with horror–but I was determined.

I crept up the pipe. As I expected, it opened funnel-wise into a room where the poor King was playing poker with Black Michael. It took me but a moment to dash through the window into the room, push the King aside, gag and bind Black Michael, and lower him by a stout rope into the pipe he had destined for another. Having him in my power, I lowered him until I heard his body splash in the water in the lower part of the pipe. Then I proceeded to draw him up again, intending to question him in regard to Rupert of Glasgow. But this was difficult, as his saturated clothing made him fit the smooth pipe closely. At last I had him partly up, when I was amazed at a rush of water from the pipe which flooded the room. I dropped him and pulled him up again with the same result. Then in a flash I saw it all. His body, acting like a piston in the pipe, had converted it into a powerful pump. Mad with joy, I rapidly lowered and pulled him up again and again, until the castle was flooded–and the moat completely drained! I had created the diversion I wished; the tenants of the castle were disorganized and bewildered in trying to escape from the deluge, and the moat was accessible to my friends. Placing the poor King on a table to be out of the water, and tying up his head in my handkerchief to disguise him from Michael’s guards, I drew my sword and plunged downstairs with the cataract in search of the miscreant Rupert. I reached the drawbridge, when I heard the sounds of tumult and was twice fired at,–once, as I have since learned, by my friends, under the impression that I was the escaping Rupert of Glasgow, and once by Black Michael’s myrmidons, under the belief that I was the King. I was struck by the fact that these resemblances were confusing and unfortunate! At this moment, however, I caught sight of a kilted figure leaping from a lower window into the moat. Some instinct impelled me to follow it. It rapidly crossed the moat and plunged into the forest, with me in pursuit. I gained upon it; suddenly it turned, and I found myself again confronted with MYSELF–and apparently the King! But that very resemblance made me recognize the Scotch pretender, Rupert of Glasgow. Yet he would have been called a “braw laddie,” and his handsome face showed a laughing good humor, even while he opposed me, claymore in hand.

“Bide a wee, Maister Rupert Razorbill,” he said lightly, lowering his sword, “before we slit ane anither’s weasands. I’m no claimin’ any descent frae kings, and I’m no acceptin’ any auld wife’s clavers against my women forbears, as ye are! I’m just paid gude honest siller by Black Michael for the using of ma face and figure– sic time as his Majesty is tae worse frae trink! And I’m commeesioned frae Michael to ask ye what price YE would take to join me in performing these duties–turn and turn aboot. Eh, laddie–but he would pay ye mair than that daft beggar, Spitz.”

Rage and disgust overpowered me. “And THIS is my answer,” I said, rushing upon him.

I have said earlier in these pages that I was a “strong” swordsman. In point of fact, I had carefully studied in the transpontine theatres that form of melodramatic mediaeval sword-play known as “two up and two down.” To my disgust, however, this wretched Scotchman did not seem to understand it, but in a twinkling sent my sword flying over my head. Before I could recover it, he had mounted a horse ready saddled in the wood, and, shouting to me that he would take my “compleements” to the Princess, galloped away. Even then I would have pursued him afoot, but, hearing shouts behind me, I turned as Spitz and Fritz rode up.

“Has the King escaped to Kohlslau?” asked Fritz, staring at me.

“No,” I said, “but Rupert of Glasgow”–

“–Rupert of Glasgow,” growled Spitz. “We’ve settled him! He’s gagged and bound and is now on his way to the frontier in a close carriage.”

“Rupert–on his way to the frontier?” I gasped.

“Yes. Two of my men found him, disguised with a handkerchief over his face, trying to escape from the castle. And while we were looking for the King, whom we supposed was with you, they have sent the rascally Scotchman home.”

“Fool!” I gasped. “Rupert of Glasgow has just left me! YOU HAVE DEPORTED YOUR OWN KING.” And overcome by my superhuman exertions, I sank unconscious to the ground.

When I came to, I found myself in a wagon lit, speeding beyond the Trulyruralania frontier. On my berth was lying a missive with the seal of the S’helpburgs. Tearing it open I recognized the handwriting of the Princess Flirtia.

MY DEAR RUPERT,–Owing to the confusion that arises from there being so many of you, I have concluded to accept the hand of the Duke Michael. I may not become a Queen, but I shall bring rest to my country, and Michael assures me in his playful manner that “three of a kind,” “even of the same color,” do not always win at poker. It will tranquilize you somewhat to know that the Lord Chancellor assures me that on examining the records of the dynasty he finds that my ancestor Rupert never left his kingdom during his entire reign, and that consequently your ancestress has been grossly maligned. I am sending typewritten copies of this to Rupert of Glasgow and the King. Farewell.


Once a year, at Christmastide, I receive a simple foreign hamper via Charing Cross, marked “Return empty.” I take it in silence to my own room, and there, opening it, I find–unseen by any other eyes but my own–a modest pate de foie gras, of the kind I ate with the Princess Flirtia. I take out the pate, replace the label, and have the hamper reconveyed to Charing Cross.



I found Hemlock Jones in the old Brook Street lodgings, musing before the fire. With the freedom of an old friend I at once threw myself in my usual familiar attitude at his feet, and gently caressed his boot. I was induced to do this for two reasons: one, that it enabled me to get a good look at his bent, concentrated face, and the other, that it seemed to indicate my reverence for his superhuman insight. So absorbed was he even then, in tracking some mysterious clue, that he did not seem to notice me. But therein I was wrong–as I always was in my attempt to understand that powerful intellect.

“It is raining,” he said, without lifting his head.

“You have been out, then?” I said quickly.

“No. But I see that your umbrella is wet, and that your overcoat has drops of water on it.”

I sat aghast at his penetration. After a pause he said carelessly, as if dismissing the subject: “Besides, I hear the rain on the window. Listen.”

I listened. I could scarcely credit my ears, but there was the soft pattering of drops on the panes. It was evident there was no deceiving this man!

“Have you been busy lately?” I asked, changing the subject. “What new problem–given up by Scotland Yard as inscrutable–has occupied that gigantic intellect?”

He drew back his foot slightly, and seemed to hesitate ere he returned it to its original position. Then he answered wearily: “Mere trifles–nothing to speak of. The Prince Kupoli has been here to get my advice regarding the disappearance of certain rubies from the Kremlin; the Rajah of Pootibad, after vainly beheading his entire bodyguard, has been obliged to seek my assistance to recover a jeweled sword. The Grand Duchess of Pretzel-Brauntswig is desirous of discovering where her husband was on the night of February 14; and last night”–he lowered his voice slightly–“a lodger in this very house, meeting me on the stairs, wanted to know why they didn’t answer his bell.”

I could not help smiling–until I saw a frown gathering on his inscrutable forehead.

“Pray remember,” he said coldly, “that it was through such an apparently trivial question that I found out Why Paul Ferroll Killed His Wife, and What Happened to Jones!”

I became dumb at once. He paused for a moment, and then suddenly changing back to his usual pitiless, analytical style, he said: “When I say these are trifles, they are so in comparison to an affair that is now before me. A crime has been committed,–and, singularly enough, against myself. You start,” he said. “You wonder who would have dared to attempt it. So did I; nevertheless, it has been done. I have been ROBBED!”

YOU robbed! You, Hemlock Jones, the Terror of Peculators!” I gasped in amazement, arising and gripping the table as I faced him.

“Yes! Listen. I would confess it to no other. But YOU who have followed my career, who know my methods; you, for whom I have partly lifted the veil that conceals my plans from ordinary humanity,–you, who have for years rapturously accepted my confidences, passionately admired my inductions and inferences, placed yourself at my beck and call, become my slave, groveled at my feet, given up your practice except those few unremunerative and rapidly decreasing patients to whom, in moments of abstraction over MY problems, you have administered strychnine for quinine and arsenic for Epsom salts; you, who have sacrificed anything and everybody to me,–YOU I make my confidant!”

I arose and embraced him warmly, yet he was already so engrossed in thought that at the same moment he mechanically placed his hand upon his watch chain as if to consult the time. “Sit down,” he said. “Have a cigar?”

“I have given up cigar smoking,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

I hesitated, and perhaps colored. I had really given it up because, with my diminished practice, it was too expensive. I could afford only a pipe. “I prefer a pipe,” I said laughingly. “But tell me of this robbery. What have you lost?”

He arose, and planting himself before the fire with his hands under his coattails, looked down upon me reflectively for a moment. “Do you remember the cigar case presented to me by the Turkish Ambassador for discovering the missing favorite of the Grand Vizier in the fifth chorus girl at the Hilarity Theatre? It was that one. I mean the cigar case. It was incrusted with diamonds.”

“And the largest one had been supplanted by paste,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, with a reflective smile, you know that?”

“You told me yourself. I remember considering it a proof of your extraordinary perception. But, by Jove, you don’t mean to say you have lost it?”

He was silent for a moment. “No; it has been stolen, it is true, but I shall still find it. And by myself alone! In your profession, my dear fellow, when a member is seriously ill, he does not prescribe for himself, but calls in a brother doctor. Therein we differ. I shall take this matter in my own hands.”

“And where could you find better?” I said enthusiastically. “I should say the cigar case is as good as recovered already.”

“I shall remind you of that again,” he said lightly. “And now, to show you my confidence in your judgment, in spite of my determination to pursue this alone, I am willing to listen to any suggestions from you.”

He drew a memorandum book from his pocket and, with a grave smile, took up his pencil.

I could scarcely believe my senses. He, the great Hemlock Jones, accepting suggestions from a humble individual like myself! I kissed his hand reverently, and began in a joyous tone:

“First, I should advertise, offering a reward; I should give the same intimation in hand-bills, distributed at the ‘pubs’ and the pastry-cooks’. I should next visit the different pawnbrokers; I should give notice at the police station. I should examine the servants. I should thoroughly search the house and my own pockets. I speak relatively,” I added, with a laugh. “Of course I mean YOUR own.”

He gravely made an entry of these details.

“Perhaps,” I added, “you have already done this?”

“Perhaps,” he returned enigmatically. “Now, my dear friend,” he continued, putting the note-book in his pocket and rising, “would you excuse me for a few moments? Make yourself perfectly at home until I return; there may be some things,” he added with a sweep of his hand toward his heterogeneously filled shelves, “that may interest you and while away the time. There are pipes and tobacco in that corner.”

Then nodding to me with the same inscrutable face he left the room. I was too well accustomed to his methods to think much of his unceremonious withdrawal, and made no doubt he was off to investigate some clue which had suddenly occurred to his active intelligence.

Left to myself I cast a cursory glance over his shelves. There were a number of small glass jars containing earthy substances, labeled “Pavement and Road Sweepings,” from the principal thoroughfares and suburbs of London, with the sub-directions “for identifying foot-tracks.” There were several other jars, labeled “Fluff from Omnibus and Road Car Seats,” “Cocoanut Fibre and Rope Strands from Mattings in Public Places,” “Cigarette Stumps and Match Ends from Floor of Palace Theatre, Row A, 1 to 50.” Everywhere were evidences of this wonderful man’s system and perspicacity.

I was thus engaged when I heard the slight creaking of a door, and I looked up as a stranger entered. He was a rough-looking man, with a shabby overcoat and a still more disreputable muffler around his throat and the lower part of his face. Considerably annoyed at his intrusion, I turned upon him rather sharply, when, with a mumbled, growling apology for mistaking the room, he shuffled out again and closed the door. I followed him quickly to the landing and saw that he disappeared down the stairs. With my mind full of the robbery, the incident made a singular impression upon me. I knew my friend’s habit of hasty absences from his room in his moments of deep inspiration; it was only too probable that, with his powerful intellect and magnificent perceptive genius concentrated on one subject, he should be careless of his own belongings, and no doubt even forget to take the ordinary precaution of locking up his drawers. I tried one or two and found that I was right, although for some reason I was unable to open one to its fullest extent. The handles were sticky, as if some one had opened them with dirty fingers. Knowing Hemlock’s fastidious cleanliness, I resolved to inform him of this circumstance, but I forgot it, alas! until–but I am anticipating my story.

His absence was strangely prolonged. I at last seated myself by the fire, and lulled by warmth and the patter of the rain on the window, I fell asleep. I may have dreamt, for during my sleep I had a vague semi-consciousness as of hands being softly pressed on my pockets–no doubt induced by the story of the robbery. When I came fully to my senses, I found Hemlock Jones sitting on the other side of the hearth, his deeply concentrated gaze fixed on the fire.

“I found you so comfortably asleep that I could not bear to awaken you,” he said, with a smile.

I rubbed my eyes. “And what news?” I asked. “How have you succeeded?”

“Better than I expected,” he said, “and I think,” he added, tapping his note-book, “I owe much to YOU.”

Deeply gratified, I awaited more. But in vain. I ought to have remembered that in his moods Hemlock Jones was reticence itself. I told him simply of the strange intrusion, but he only laughed.

Later, when I arose to go, he looked at me playfully. “If you were a married man,” he said, “I would advise you not to go home until you had brushed your sleeve. There are a few short brown sealskin hairs on the inner side of your forearm, just where they would have adhered if your arm had encircled a seal-skin coat with some pressure!”

“For once you are at fault,” I said triumphantly; “the hair is my own, as you will perceive; I have just had it cut at the hairdresser’s, and no doubt this arm projected beyond the apron.”

He frowned slightly, yet, nevertheless, on my turning to go he embraced me warmly–a rare exhibition in that man of ice. He even helped me on with my overcoat and pulled out and smoothed down the flaps of my pockets. He was particular, too, in fitting my arm in my overcoat sleeve, shaking the sleeve down from the armhole to the cuff with his deft fingers. “Come again soon!” he said, clapping me on the back.

“At any and all times,” I said enthusiastically; “I only ask ten minutes twice a day to eat a crust at my office, and four hours’ sleep at night, and the rest of my time is devoted to you always, as you know.”

“It is indeed,” he said, with his impenetrable smile.

Nevertheless, I did not find him at home when I next called. One afternoon, when nearing my own home, I met him in one of his favorite disguises,–a long blue swallow-tailed coat, striped cotton trousers, large turn-over collar, blacked face, and white hat, carrying a tambourine. Of course to others the disguise was perfect, although it was known to myself, and I passed him– according to an old understanding between us–without the slightest recognition, trusting to a later explanation. At another time, as I was making a professional visit to the wife of a publican at the East End, I saw him, in the disguise of a broken-down artisan, looking into the window of an adjacent pawnshop. I was delighted to see that he was evidently following my suggestions, and in my joy I ventured to tip him a wink; it was abstractedly returned.

Two days later I received a note appointing a meeting at his lodgings that night. That meeting, alas! was the one memorable occurrence of my life, and the last meeting I ever had with Hemlock Jones! I will try to set it down calmly, though my pulses still throb with the recollection of it.

I found him standing before the fire, with that look upon his face which I had seen only once or twice in our acquaintance–a look which I may call an absolute concatenation of inductive and deductive ratiocination–from which all that was human, tender, or sympathetic was absolutely discharged. He was simply an icy algebraic symbol! Indeed, his whole being was concentrated to that extent that his clothes fitted loosely, and his head was absolutely so much reduced in size by his mental compression that his hat tipped back from his forehead and literally hung on his massive ears.

After I had entered he locked the doors, fastened the windows, and even placed a chair before the chimney. As I watched these significant precautions with absorbing interest, he suddenly drew a revolver and, presenting it to my temple, said in low, icy tones:

“Hand over that cigar case!”

Even in my bewilderment my reply was truthful, spontaneous, and involuntary. “I haven’t got it,” I said.

He smiled bitterly, and threw down his revolver. “I expected that reply! Then let me now confront you with something more awful, more deadly, more relentless and convincing than that mere lethal weapon,–the damning inductive and deductive proofs of your guilt!” He drew from his pocket a roll of paper and a note-book.

“But surely,” I gasped, “you are joking! You could not for a moment believe”–

“Silence! Sit down!” I obeyed.

“You have condemned yourself,” he went on pitilessly. “Condemned yourself on my processes,–processes familiar to you, applauded by you, accepted by you for years! We will go back to the time when you first saw the cigar case. Your expressions,” he said in cold, deliberate tones, consulting his paper, were, ‘How beautiful! I wish it were mine.’ This was your first step in crime–and my first indication. From ‘I WISH it were mine’ to ‘I WILL have it mine,’ and the mere detail, ‘HOW CAN I make it mine?’ the advance was obvious. Silence! But as in my methods it was necessary that there should be an overwhelming inducement to the crime, that unholy admiration of yours for the mere trinket itself was not enough. You are a smoker of cigars.”

“But,” I burst out passionately, “I told you I had given up smoking cigars.”

“Fool!” he said coldly, “that is the SECOND time you have committed yourself. Of course you told me! What more natural than for you to blazon forth that prepared and unsolicited statement to PREVENT accusation. Yet, as I said before, even that wretched attempt to cover up your tracks was not enough. I still had to find that overwhelming, impelling motive necessary to affect a man like you. That motive I found in the strongest of all impulses–Love, I suppose you would call it,” he added bitterly, “that night you called! You had brought the most conclusive proofs of it on your sleeve.”

“But–” I almost screamed.

“Silence!” he thundered. “I know what you would say. You would say that even if you had embraced some Young Person in a sealskin coat, what had that to do with the robbery? Let me tell you, then, that that sealskin coat represented the quality and character of your fatal entanglement! You bartered your honor for it–that stolen cigar case was the purchaser of the sealskin coat!

“Silence! Having thoroughly established your motive, I now proceed to the commission of the crime itself. Ordinary people would have begun with that–with an attempt to discover the whereabouts of the missing object. These are not MY methods.”

So overpowering was his penetration that, although I knew myself innocent, I licked my lips with avidity to hear the further details of this lucid exposition of my crime.

“You committed that theft the night I showed you the cigar case, and after I had carelessly thrown it in that drawer. You were sitting in that chair, and I had arisen to take something from that shelf. In that instant you secured your booty without rising. Silence! Do you remember when I helped you on with your overcoat the other night? I was particular about fitting your arm in. While doing so I measured your arm with a spring tape measure, from the shoulder to the cuff. A later visit to your tailor confirmed that measurement. It proved to be THE EXACT DISTANCE BETWEEN YOUR CHAIR AND THAT DRAWER!”

I sat stunned.

“The rest are mere corroborative details! You were again tampering with the drawer when I discovered you doing so! Do not start! The stranger that blundered into the room with a muffler on–was myself! More, I had placed a little soap on the drawer handles when I purposely left you alone. The soap was on your hand when I shook it at parting. I softly felt your pockets, when you were asleep, for further developments. I embraced you when you left– that I might feel if you had the cigar case or any other articles hidden on your body. This confirmed me in the belief that you had already disposed of it in the manner and for the purpose I have shown you. As I still believed you capable of remorse and confession, I twice allowed you to see I was on your track: once in the garb of an itinerant negro minstrel, and the second time as a workman looking in the window of the pawnshop where you pledged your booty.”

“But,” I burst out, “if you had asked the pawnbroker, you would have seen how unjust”–

“Fool!” he hissed, “that was one of YOUR suggestions–to search the pawnshops! Do you suppose I followed any of your suggestions, the suggestions of the thief? On the contrary, they told me what to avoid.”

“And I suppose,” I said bitterly, “you have not even searched your drawer?”

“No,” he said calmly.

I was for the first time really vexed. I went to the nearest drawer and pulled it out sharply. It stuck as it had before, leaving a part of the drawer unopened. By working it, however, I discovered that it was impeded by some obstacle that had slipped to the upper part of the drawer, and held it firmly fast. Inserting my hand, I pulled out the impeding object. It was the missing cigar case! I turned to him with a cry of joy.

But I was appalled at his expression. A look of contempt was now added to his acute, penetrating gaze. “I have been mistaken,” he said slowly; “I had not allowed for your weakness and cowardice! I thought too highly of you even in your guilt! But I see now why you tampered with that drawer the other night. By some inexplicable means–possibly another theft–you took the cigar case out of pawn and, like a whipped hound, restored it to me in this feeble, clumsy fashion. You thought to deceive me, Hemlock Jones! More, you thought to destroy my infallibility. Go! I give you your liberty. I shall not summon the three policemen who wait in the adjoining room–but out of my sight forever!”

As I stood once more dazed and petrified, he took me firmly by the ear and led me into the hall, closing the door behind him. This reopened presently, wide enough to permit him to thrust out my hat, overcoat, umbrella, and overshoes, and then closed against me forever!

I never saw him again. I am bound to say, however, that thereafter my business increased, I recovered much of my old practice, and a few of my patients recovered also. I became rich. I had a brougham and a house in the West End. But I often wondered, pondering on that wonderful man’s penetration and insight, if, in some lapse of consciousness, I had not really stolen his cigar case!






Golly Coyle was the only granddaughter of a vague and somewhat simple clergyman who existed, with an aunt, solely for Golly’s epistolary purposes. There was, of course, intermediate ancestry,– notably a dead mother who was French, and therefore responsible for any later naughtiness in Golly,–but they have no purpose here. They lived in the Isle of Man. Golly knew a good deal of Man, for even at the age of twelve she was in love with John Gale–only son of Lord Gale, who was connected with the Tempests. Gales, however, were frequent and remarkable along the coast, so that it was not singular that one day she found John “coming on” on a headland where she was sitting. His dog had “pointed” her. “It’s exceedingly impolite to point to anything you want,” said Golly. Touched by this, and overcome by a strange emotion, John Gale turned away and went to Canada. Slight as the incident was, it showed that inborn chivalry to women, that desire for the Perfect Life, that intense eagerness to incarnate Christianity in modern society, which afterward distinguished him. Golly loved him! For all that, she still remained a “tomboy” as she was,–robbing orchards, mimicking tramps and policemen, buttering the stairs and the steps of houses, tying kettles to dogs’ tails, and marching in a white jersey, with the curate’s hat on, through the streets of the village. “Gol dern my skin!” said the dear old clergyman, as he tried to emerge from a surplice which Golly had stitched together; “what spirits the child DO have!” Yet everybody loved her! And when John Gale returned from Canada, and looked into her big blue eyes one day at church, small wonder that he immediately went off again to Paris, and an extended Continental sojourn, with a serious leaning to theology! Golly bore his absence meekly but characteristically; got a boat, disported like a duck in the water, attempted to elope with a boy appropriately named Drake, but encountered a half gale at sea and a whole Gale in John on a yacht, who rescued them both. Convinced now that there was but one way to escape from his Fate–Golly!–John Gale took holy orders and at once started for London. As he stood on the deck of the steamer he heard an imbecile chuckle in his ear. It was the simple old clergyman: “You are going to London to join the Church, John; Golly is going there, too, as hospital nurse. There’s a pair of you! He! he! Look after her, John, and protect her Manx simplicity.” Before John could recover himself, Golly was at his side executing the final steps of a “cellar-door flap jig” to the light-hearted refrain:–

“We are a simple family–we are–we are–we are!”

And even as her pure young voice arose above the screams of the departure whistle, she threw a double back-somersault on the quarterdeck, cleverly alighting on the spikes of the wheel before the delighted captain.

“Jingle my electric bells,” be said, looking at the bright young thing, “but you’re a regular minx–“

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted John Gale, with a quick flush.

“I mean a regular MANX,” said the captain hurriedly.

A singular paleness crossed the deeply religious face of John. As the vessel rose on the waves, he passed his hand hurriedly first across his brows and then over his high-buttoned clerical waistcoat, that visible sign of a devoted ascetic life! Then murmuring in his low, deep voice, “Brandy, steward,” he disappeared below.


Glorious as were Golly’s spirits, exquisitely simple her worldly ignorance, and irresistible her powers of mimicry, strangely enough they were considered out of place in St. Barabbas’ Hospital. A light-hearted disposition to mistake a blister for a poultice; that rare Manx conscientiousness which made her give double doses to the patients as a compensation when she had omitted to give them a single one, and the faculty of bursting into song at the bedside of a dying patient, produced some liveliness not unmixed with perplexity among the hospital staff. It is true, however, that her performance of clog-dancing during the night-watches drew a larger and more persistent attendance of students and young surgeons than ever was seen before. Yet everybody loved her! Even her patients! “If it amooses you, miss, to make me tyke the pills wot’s meant for the lydy in the next ward, I ain’t complyning,” said an East End newsboy. “When ye tyke off the style of the doctor wot wisits me, miss, and imitates his wyes, Lawd! it does me as much good as his mixtures,” said a consumptive charwoman. Even thus, old and young basked in the radiant youth of Golly. She found time to write to her family:–

DEAR OLD PALS! I’m here. J’y suis! bet your boots! While you’re wondering what has become of the Bright Young Thing, the B. Y. T. is lookin’ out of the winder of St. Barabbas’ Hospital–just taking in all of dear, roaring, dirty London in one gulp! Such a place– Lordy! I’ve been waiting three hours to see the crowd go by, and they haven’t gone yet! Such crowds, such busses,–all green and blue, only a penny fare, and you can ride on top if you want to! Think of that, you dear old Manx people! But there–“the bell goes a-ringing for Sarah!”–they’re calling for Nurse! That’s the worst of this job: they’re always a-dyin’ just as you’re getting interested in something else! Ta-ta!


Then her dear old grandfather wrote:

I’m wondering where my diddleums, Golly, is! We all miss you so much, deary, though we don’t miss so many little things as when you were here. My dear, conscientious, unselfish little girl! You don’t say where John Gale is. Is he still protecting you–he-he!– you giddy, naughty thing! People wonder on the island why I let you go alone to London–they forget your dear mother was a Frenchwoman! If you see anything your dear old grandfather would like–send it on. GRANFER.

Later, her aunt wrote:–

Have you seen the Queen yet, and does she wear her crown at breakfast? You might get over the area railing at Buckingham Palace–it would be nothing for a girl like you to do–and see if you can find out.

To these letters Golly answered, in her own light-hearted way:–

DEAR GRANKINS,–I haven’t seen John much–but I think he’s like the Private Secretary at the play–he “don’t like London.” Lordy! there–I’ve let it out! I’ve been to a theayter. Nurse Jinny Jones and me scrouged into the pit one night without paying, “pertendin’,” as we were in uniform, we had come to take out a “Lydy” that had fainted. Such larks! and such a glorious theayter! I’ll tell you another time. Tell aunty the Queen’s always out when I call. But that’s nothing, everybody else is so affable and polite in London. Gentlemen–“real toffs,” they call ’em–whom you don’t know from Adam–think nothing of speaking to you in the street. Why, Nurse Jinny says–but there another patient’s going off who by rights oughter have died only to-morrow. “To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow,” as that barn-stormer actor said. But they’re always calling for that giddy young thing,


Meantime, John Gale, having abruptly left Golly at the door of St. Barabbas’ hospital, tactfully avoiding an unseemly altercation with the cab-driver regarding her exact fare, pursued his way thoughtfully to the residence of his uncle, the First Lord of the Admiralty. He found his Lordship in his bath-room. He was leaning over the bath-tub, which was half full of water, contemplating with some anxiety the model of a line-of-battle ship which was floating on it, bottom upward. “I don’t think it can be quite right–do you?” he said, nervously grasping his nephew’s hand as he pointed to the capsized vessel; “yet they always do it. Tell me!” he went on appealingly, “tell me, as a professing Christian and a Perfect Man–is it quite right?”

“I should think, sir,” responded John Gale, with uncompromising truthfulness, “that the average vessel of commerce is not built in that way.”

“Yet,” said the First Lord of the Admiralty, with a far-off look, “they all do it! And they don’t steer! The larger they are and the more recent the model, the less they steer. Dear me–you ought to see ’em go round and round in that tub.” Then, apparently recalling the probable purpose of John’s visit, he led the way into his dressing-room. “So you are in London, dear boy. Is there any little thing you want? I have,” he continued, absently fumbling in the drawers of his dressing-table, “a few curacies and a bishopric somewhere, but with these blessed models–I can’t think where they are. Or what would you say to a nice chaplaincy in the navy, with a becoming uniform, on one of those thingummies?” He pointed to the bath-room. “Stay,” he continued, as he passed his hand over his perplexed brows, “now I think of it–you’re quite unorthodox! Dear me! that wouldn’t do. You see, Drake,”–he paused, as John Gale started,–“I mean Sir Francis Drake, once suspended his chaplain for unorthodoxy, according to Froude’s book. These admirals are dreadfully strict Churchmen. No matter! Come again some other time,” he added, gently pushing his nephew downstairs and into the street, “and we’ll see about it.”

With a sinking heart, John turned his steps toward Westminster. He would go and see Golly; perhaps he had not looked after her as he ought. Suddenly a remembered voice, in mimicking accents, fell upon his ear with the quotation, “Do you know?” Then, in a hansom passing swiftly by him, Golly, in hospital dress with flying ribbons, appeared, sitting between Lord Brownstone Ewer and Francis Horatio Nelson Drake, completely grown up. And from behind floated the inexpressibly sad refrain, “Hi tiddli hi!”

This is how it happened. One morning, Jinny Jones, another hospital nurse, had said to her, “Have you any objection, dear, to seeing a friend of another gent, a friend of mine?”

“None in the least, dear,” said Golly. “I want to see all that can be seen, and do all that can be done in London, and know the glory thereof. I only require that I shall be allowed to love John Gale whenever he permits it, which isn’t often, and that I may be permitted to write simple letters to my doting relations at the rate of twelve pages a day, giving an account–MY OWN account–of my doings. There! Go on now! Bring on your bears.”

They had visited the chambers which Lord Brownstone and Drake occupied together, and in girlish innocence had put on the gentlemen’s clothes and danced before them. Then they all went to the theatre, where Golly’s delightful simplicity and childish ignorance of the world had charmed them. Everything to her was new, strange, and thrilling. She even leaned from the carriage windows to see the “wheels go round.” She was surprised at the number of people in the theatre, and insisted on knowing if it was church, because they all sat there in their best clothes so quietly. She believed that the play was real, and frequently, from a stage box, interrupted the acting with explanations. She informed the heroine of the design of the villain waiting at the wings. And when the aged mother of the heroine was dying of starvation in a hovel, and she threw a bag of bonbons on the stage, with the vociferous declaration that “Lord Brownstone had just given them to her–but–Lordy!–SHE didn’t want them,” they were obliged to lead her away, closely followed by an usher and a policeman. “To think,” she wrote to John Gale, “that the audience only laughed and shouted, and never offered to help! And yet look at the churches in London, where they dare to preach the gospel!”

Fired by this simple letter, and alarmed by Golly’s simplicity, John Gale went to his clerical chief, Archdeacon Luxury, and demanded permission to preach next Sunday. “Certainly,” said the Archdeacon; “you shall take my curate’s place. I shall inform the congregation that you are the son of Lord Gale. They are very particular churchmen–all society people–and of course will be satisfied with the work of the Lord, especially,” he added, with a polite smile, “when that work happens to be–the Lord Gale’s son.” Accordingly, the next Sunday, John Gale occupied the pulpit of St. Swithin. But an unexpected event happened. His pent-up eagerness to denounce the present methods of Christianity, his fullness of utterance, defeated his purpose. He was overcome with a kind of pulpit fright. His ideas of time and place fled him. After beginning, “Mr. Chairman, in rising to propose the toast of our worthy Archdeacon–Fellow Manxmen–the present moment–er–er–the proudest in my–er–life–Dearly beloved Golly–unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,” he abruptly delivered the benediction and sat down. The incident, however, provoked little attention. The congregation, accustomed to sleep through the sermon, awoke at the usual time and went home. Only a single Scotchwoman said to him in passing: “Verra weel for a beginning, laddie. But give it hotter to ’em next time.” Discomfited and bewildered, he communed with himself gloomily. “I can’t marry Golly. I can’t talk. I hate society. What’s to be done? I have it! I’ll go into a monastery.”

He went into a monastery in Bishopsgate Street, reached by a threepenny ‘bus. He gave out vaguely that he had got into “Something Good, in the City.” Society was satisfied. Only Golly suspected the truth. She wrote to her grandfather:–

“I saw John Gale the other day with a crowd following him in the Strand. He had on only a kind of brown serge dressing-gown, tied around his waist by a rope, and a hood on his head. I think his poor ‘toe-toes’ were in sandals, and I dare say his legs were cold, poor dear. However, if he calls THAT protection of Golly–I don’t! I might be run off at any moment–for all he’d help. No matter! If this Court understands herself, and she thinks she do, Golly can take care of herself–you bet.”

Nevertheless, Golly lost her place at the hospital through her heroic defense of her friend Jinny Jones, who had been deceived by Lord Brownstone Ewer. “You would drive that poor girl into the street,” she said furiously to the Chairman of the Board, throwing her cap and apron in their faces. “You’re a lot of rotten old hypocrites, and I’m glad to get shut of you.” Not content with that, she went to Drake and demanded that he should make his friend Lord Brownstone marry Jinny.

“Sorry–awfully sorry–my dear Golly, but he’s engaged to a rich American girl who is to pay his debts; but I’ll see that he does something handsome for Jinny. And YOU, my child, what are YOU going to do without a situation?” he added, with touching sympathy. “You see, I’ve some vague idea of marrying you myself,” he concluded meditatively.

“Thank you for nothing,” interrupted Golly gayly, “but I can take care of myself and follow out my mission like John Gale.”

“There’s a pair of you, certainly,” said Drake, with a tinge of jealous bitterness.

“You bet it’s ‘a pair’ that will take your ‘two knaves,’ you and your Lord Brownstone,” returned Golly, dropping a mock courtesy. “Ta-ta; I’m going on the stage.”


She went first into a tobacconist’s–and sold cigarettes. Sometimes she suffered from actual want, and ate fried fish. “Do you know how nice fried fish tastes in London,–you on ‘the Oilan’?” she wrote gayly. “I’m getting on splendidly; so’s John Gale, I suppose, though he’s looking cadaverous from starving himself all round. Tell aunty I haven’t seen the Queen yet, though after all I really believe she has not seen me.”

Then, after a severe struggle, she succeeded in getting on the stage as a song and dance girl. She sang melodiously and danced divinely, so remarkably that the ignorant public, knowing her to be a Manx girl, and vaguely associating her with the symbol of the Isle of Man, supposed she had three legs. She was the success of the season; her cup of ambition was filled. It was slightly embittered by the news that her friend Jinny Jones had killed herself in the church at the wedding of her recreant lover and the American heiress. But the affair was scarcely alluded to by the Society papers–who were naturally shocked at the bad taste of the deceased. And even Golly forgot it all–on the stage.


Meanwhile John Gale, or Brother Boreas, as he was known in the monastery, was submitting–among other rigors–to an exceptionally severe winter in Bishopsgate Street, which seemed to have an Arctic climate of its own,–possibly induced by the “freezing-out” process of certain stock companies in its vicinity.

“You are miserable, and eager to get out in the wicked world again, my son, said the delightful old Superior, as he sat by the only fire, sipping a glass of mulled port, when John came in from shoveling snow outside. “I, therefore, merely to try you, shall make you gatekeeper. The keys of the monastery front door are under the door-mat in my cell, but I am a sound sleeper.” He smiled seraphically, and winked casually as he sipped his port. “We will call it, if you please–a penance.”

John threw himself in an agony of remorse and shame at the feet of the Superior. “It isn’t of myself I’m thinking,” he confessed wildly, “but of that poor young man, Brother Bones, in the next cell to mine. He is a living skeleton, has got only one lung and an atrophied brain. A night out might do him good.”

The Father Superior frowned. “Do you know who he is?”


“His real name is Jones. Why do you start? You have heard it before?”

John had started, thinking of Jinny Jones, Golly’s deserted and self-immolated friend.

“It is an uncommon name,” he stammered–“for a monastery, I mean.”

“He is or was an uncommon man!” said the Superior gravely. “But,” he added resignedly, “we cannot pick and choose our company here. Most of us have done something and have our own reasons for this retreat. Brother Polygamus escaped here from the persecutions of his sixth wife. Even I,” continued the Superior with a gentle smile, putting his feet comfortably on the mantelpiece, “have had my little fling, and the dear boys used to say–ahem!–but this is mere worldly vanity. You alone, my dear son, he went on with slight severity, “seem to be wanting in some criminality, or–shall I say?–some appropriate besetting sin to qualify you for this holy retreat. An absolutely gratuitous and blameless idiocy appears to be your only peculiarity, and for this you must do penance. From this day henceforth, I make you doorkeeper! Go on with your shoveling at present, and shut the door behind you; there’s a terrible draught in these corridors.”

For three days John Gale underwent an agony of doubt and determination, and it still snowed in Bishopsgate Street.

On the fourth evening he went to Brother Bones.

“Would you like to have an evening out?”

“I would,” said Brother Bones.

“What would you do?”

“I would go to see my remaining sister.” His left eyelid trembled slowly in his cadaverous face.

“But if you should hear she was ruined like the other? What would you do?”

A shudder passed over the man. “I have not got my little knife,” he said vacantly.

True, he had not! The Brotherhood had no pockets,–or rather only a corporate one, which belonged to the Superior. John Gale lifted his eyes in sublime exaltation. “You shall go out,” he said with decision. “Muffle up until you are well out of Bishopsgate Street, where it still snows.”

“But how did you get the keys?” said Brother Bones.

“From under the Father Superior’s door-mat.”

“But that was wrong, Brother.”

“The mat bore the inscription, ‘Salve,’ which you know in Latin means ‘Welcome,'” returned John Gale. “It was logically a permission.”

The two men gazed at each other silently. A shudder passed over the two left eyelids of their wan spiritual faces.

“But I have no money,” said Brother Bones.

“Nor have I. But here is a ‘bus ticket and a free pass to the Gaiety. You will probably find Golly somewhere about. Tell her,” he said in a hollow voice, “that I’m getting on.”

“I will,” said Brother Bones, with a deep cough.

The gate opened and he disappeared in the falling snow. The bloodhound kept by the monastery–one of the real Bishopsgate breed–bayed twice, and licked its huge jaws in ghastly anticipation. “I wonder,” said John Gale as he resumed his shoveling, “if I have done exactly right. Candor compels me to admit that it is an open question.”


Early the next morning, Brother Bones was brought home by Policeman X, his hat crushed, his face haggard, his voice husky and unintelligible. He only said vaguely, “Washertime?”

“It is,” said John Gale timidly, in explanation to Policeman X, “a case of spiritual exhaustion following a vigil.”

“That warn’t her name,” said Policeman X sternly. “But don’t let this ‘ere appen again.”

John Gale turned to Brother Bones. “Then you saw her–Golly?”

“No,” said Brother Bones.

“Why? What on earth have you been doing?”

“Dunno! Found myself in stashun–zis morning! Thashall!”

Then John Gale sought the Superior in an agony of remorse, and confessed all. “I am unfit to remain doorkeeper. Remove me,” he groaned bitterly.

The old man smiled gently. “On the contrary, I should have given you the keys myself. Hereafter you can keep them. The ways of our Brotherhood are mysterious,–indeed, you may think idiotic,–but we are not responsible for them. It’s all Brother Caine’s doing–it’s ‘All Caine!”


Nevertheless, John Gale left the monastery. “The Bishopsgate Street winter does not suit me,” he briefly explained to the Superior. “I must go south or southwest.”

But he did neither. He saw Golly, who was living west. He upbraided her for going on the stage. She retorted: “Whose life is the more artificial, yours or mine? It is true that we are both imperfectly clothed,” she added, glancing at a photograph of herself in a short skirt, “and not always in our right mind–but you’ve caught nothing but a cold! Nevertheless, I love you and you love me.”

Then he begged her to go with him to the South Seas and take the place of Father Damien among the colony of lepers. “It is a beautiful place, and inexpensive, for we shall live only a few weeks. What do you say, dearest? You know,” he added, with a faint, sad smile, glancing at another photograph of her,–executing the high kick,–“you’re quite a leaper yourself.”

But that night she received an offer of a new engagement. She wrote to John Gale: “The South Seas is rather an expensive trip to take simply to die. Couldn’t we do it as cheaply at home? Or couldn’t you prevail on your Father Superior to set up his monastery there? I’m afraid I’m not up to it. Why don’t you try the old ‘Oilan,’ nearer home? There’s lots of measles and diphtheria about there lately.”

When the heartbroken John Gale received this epistle, he also received a letter from his uncle, the First Lord of the Admiralty. “I don’t fancy this Damien whim of yours. If you’re really in earnest about killing yourself, why not take a brief trial trip in one of our latest ironclads? It’s just as risky, although–as we are obliged to keep these things quiet in the Office–you will not of course get that publicity your noble soul craves.”

Abandoned by all in his noble purposes, John Gale took the first steamer to the Isle of Man.


But he did not remain there long. Once back in that epistolary island, he wrote interminable letters to Golly. When they began to bore each other, he returned to London and entered the Salvation Army. Crowds flocked to hear him preach. He inveighed against Society and Wickedness as represented in his mind by Golly and her friends, and praised a perfect Christianity represented by himself and HIS friends. A panic of the same remarkable character as the Bishopsgate Street winter took possession of London. Old Moore’s, Zadkiel’s, and Mother Shipton’s prophecies were to be fulfilled at an early and fixed date, with no postponement on account of weather. Suddenly Society, John Drake, and Antichrist generally combined by ousting him from his church, and turning it into a music-hall for Golly! Then John Gale took his last and sublime resolve. His duty as a perfect Christian was to kill Golly! His logic was at once inscrutable, perfect, and–John Galish!

With this sublime and lofty purpose, he called upon Golly. The heroic girl saw his purpose in his eye–an eye at once black, murderous, and Christian-like. For an instant she thought it was better to succumb at once and thus end this remarkable attachment. Suddenly through this chaos of Spiritual, Religious, Ecstatic, Super-Egotistic whirl of confused thought, darted a gleam of Common, Ordinary Horse Sense! John Gale saw it illumine her blue eyes, and trembled. God in Mercy! If it came to THAT!

“Sit down, John,” she said calmly. Then, in her sweet, clear voice, she said: “Did it ever occur to you, dearest, that a more ridiculous, unconvincing, purposeless, insane, God-forsaken idiot than you never existed? That you eclipse the wildest dreams of insanity? That you are a mental and moral ‘What-is-it?'”

“It has occurred to me,” he replied simply. “I began life with vast asinine possibilities which fall to the lot of few men; yet I cannot say that I have carried even THEM to a logical conclusion! But YOU, love! YOU, darling! conceived in extravagance, born to impossibility, a challenge to credulity, a problem to the intellect, a ‘missing word’ for all ages,–are you aware of any one as utterly unsympathetic, unreal, and untrue to nature as you are, existing on the face of the earth, or in the waters under the earth?”

“You are right, dearest; there are none,” she returned with the same calm, level voice. “It is true that I have at times tried to do something real and womanly, and not, you know, merely to complicate a–a”–her voice faltered–“theatrical situation–but I couldn’t! Something impelled me otherwise. Now you know why I became an actress! But even there I fail! THEY are allowed reasoning power off the stage–I have none at any time! I laugh in the wrong place–I do the unnecessary, extravagant thing. Endowed by some strange power with extraordinary attributes, I am supposed to make everybody love me, but I don’t–I satisfy nobody; I convince none! I have no idea what will happen to me next. I am doomed to–I know not what.”

“And I,” he groaned bitterly, “I, in some rare and lucid moments, have had a glimpse of this too. We are in the hands of some inscrutable but awful power. Tell me, Golly, tell me, darling, who is it?”

Again that gleam of Common or Ordinary Horse Sense came in her eye.

“I have found out who,” she whispered. “I have found out who has created us, and made us as puppets in his hands.”

“Is it the Almighty?” he asked.

“No; it is”–she said, with a burst of real laughter–“it is–The ‘All Caine!”

“What! our countryman the Manxman? The only great Novelist? The beloved of Gladstone?” he gasped.

“Yes–and he intends to kill YOU–and we’re only to be married at your deathbed!”

John Gale arose with a look of stern determination. “I have suffered much and idiotically–but I draw a line at this. I shall kick!”

Golly clapped her hands joyfully. “We will!”

“And we’ll chuck him.”

“We will.”

They were choking with laughter.

“And go and get married in a natural, simple way like anybody else– and try–to do our duty–to God–to each other–and to our fellow- beings–and quit this–damned–nonsense–and in-fer-nal idiocy forever!”


PUBLISHER’S NOTE.–“In that supreme work of my life, ‘The Christian,'” said the gifted novelist to a reporter in speaking of his methods, “I had endowed the characters of Golly and John Gale with such superhuman vitality and absolute reality that–as is well known in the experience of great writers–they became thinking beings, and actually criticised my work, and even INTERFERED and REBELLED to the point of altering my climax and the end!” The present edition gives that ending, which of course is the only real one.




It seemeth but fair that I, John Longbowe, should set down this account of such hap and adventure as hath befallen me, without flourish, vaporing, or cozening of speech, but as becometh one who, not being a ready writer, goeth straight to the matter in hand in few words. So, though I offend some, I shall yet convince all, the which lieth closer to my purpose. Thus, it was in the year 1560, or 1650, or mayhap 1710–for my memory is not what it hath been and I ever cared little for monkish calendars or such dry-as-dust matter, being active as becometh one who hath to make his way in the world–yet I wot well it was after the Great Plague, which I have great cause to remember, lying at my cozen’s in Wardour Street, London, in that lamentable year, eating of gilly flowers, sulphur, hartes tongue and many stynking herbes; touching neither man nor mayd, save with a great tongs steept in pitch; wearing a fine maske of silk with a mouth piece of aromatic stuff–by reason of which acts of hardihood and courage I was miraculously preserved. This much I shall say as to the time of these happenings, and no more. I am a plain, blunt man–mayhap rude of speech should occasion warrant—so let them who require the exactness of a scrivener or a pedagogue go elsewhere for their entertainment and be hanged to them!

Howbeit, though no scholar, I am not one of those who misuse the English speech, and, being foolishly led by the hasty custom of scriveners and printers to write the letters “T” and “H” joined together, which resembleth a “Y,” do incontinently jump to the conclusion the THE is pronounced “Ye,”–the like of which I never heard in all England. And though this be little toward those great enterprises and happenings I shall presently shew, I set it down for the behoof of such malapert wights as must needs gird at a man of spirit and action–and yet, in sooth, know not their own letters.

So to my tale. There was a great frost when my Lord bade me follow him to the water gate near our lodgings in the Strand. When we reached it we were amazed to see that the Thames was frozen over and many citizens disporting themselves on the ice–the like of which no man had seen before. There were fires built thereon, and many ships and barges were stuck hard and fast, and my Lord thought it vastly pretty that the people were walking under their bows and cabbin windows and climbing of their sides like mermen, but I, being a plain, blunt man, had no joy in such idlenesse, deeming it better that in these times of pith and enterprise they should be more seemly employed. My Lord, because of one or two misadventures by reason of the slipperiness of the ice, was fain to go by London Bridge, which we did; my Lord as suited his humor ruffling the staid citizens as he passed or peering under the hoods of their wives and daughters–as became a young gallant of the time. I, being a plain, blunt man, assisted in no such folly, but contented myself, when they complayned to me, with damning their souls for greasy interfering varlets. For I shall now make no scruple in declaring that my Lord was the most noble Earl of Southampton, being withheld from so saying before through very plainness and bluntness, desiring as a simple yeoman to make no boast of serving a man of so high quality.

We fared on over Bankside to the Globe playhouse, where my Lord bade me dismount and deliver a secret message to the chief player– which message was, “had he diligently perused and examined that he wot of, and what said he thereof?” Which I did. Thereupon he that was called the chief player did incontinently proceed to load mine arms and wallet with many and divers rolls of manuscripts in my Lord’s own hand, and bade me say unto him that there was a great frost over London, but that if he were to perform those plays and masques publickly, there would be a greater frost there–to wit, in the Globe playhouse. This I did deliver with the Manuscripts to my Lord, who changed countenance mightily at the sight of them, but could make nought of the message. At which the lad who held the horses before the playhouse–one Will Shakespeare–split with laughter. Whereat my Lord cursed him for a deer-stealing, coney- catching Warwickshire lout, and cuffed him soundly. I wot there will be those who remember that this Will Shakespeare afterwards became a player and did write plays–which were acceptable even to the Queen’s Majesty’s self–and I set this down not from vanity to shew I have held converse with such, nor to give a seemingness and colour to my story, but to shew what ill-judged, misinformed knaves were they who did afterwards attribute friendship between my Lord and this Will Shakespeare, even to the saying that he made sonnets to my Lord. Howbeit, my Lord was exceeding wroth, and I, to beguile him, did propose that we should leave our horses and cargoes of manuscript behind and cross on the ice afoot, which conceit pleased him mightily. In sooth it chanced well with what followed, for hardly were we on the river when we saw a great crowd coming from Westminster, before a caravan of strange animals and savages in masks, capering and capricolling, dragging after them divers sledges quaintly fashioned like swannes, in which were ladies attired as fairies and goddesses and such like heathen and wanton trumpery, which I, as a plain, blunt man, would have fallen to cursing, had not my Lord himself damned me under his breath to hold my peace, for that he had recognized my Lord of Leicester’s colours and that he made no doubt they were of the Court. As forsooth this did presently appear; also that one of the ladies was her Gracious Majesty’s self–masked to the general eye, the better to enjoy these miscalled festivities. I say miscalled, for, though a loyal subject of her Majesty, and one who hath borne arms at Tilbury Fort in defence of her Majesty, it inflamed my choler, as a plain and blunt man, that her Mightiness should so degrade her dignity. Howbeit, as a man who hath his way to make in the world, I kept mine eyes well upon the anticks of the Great, while my Lord joined the group of maskers and their follies. I recognized her Majesty’s presence by her discourse in three languages to as many Ambassadors that were present–though I marked well that she had not forgotten her own tongue, calling one of her ladies “a sluttish wench,” nor her English spirit in cuffing my Lord of Essex’s ears for some indecorum–which, as a plain man myself, curt in speech and action, did rejoice me greatly. But I must relate one feat, the like of which I never saw in England before or since. There was a dance of the maskers, and in the midst of it her Majesty asked the Ambassador from Spayne if he had seen the latest French dance. He replied that he had not. Whereupon Her Most Excellent Majesty skipt back a pace and forward a pace, and lifting her hoop, delivered a kick at his Excellency’s hat which sent it flying the space of a good English ell above his head! Howbeit so great was the acclamation that her Majesty was graciously moved to repeat it to my Lord of Leicester, but, tripping back, her high heels caught in her farthingale, and she would have fallen on the ice, but for that my Lord, with exceeding swiftness and dexterity, whisked his cloak from his shoulder, spreading it under her, and so received her body in its folds on the ice, without himself touching her Majesty’s person. Her Majesty was greatly pleased at this, and bade my Lord buy another cloak at her cost, though it swallowed an estate; but my Lord replyed, after the lying fashion of the time, that it was honour enough for him to be permitted to keep it after “it had received her Royal person.” I know that this hap hath been partly related of another person–the shipman Raleigh–but I tell such as deny me that they lie in their teeth, for I, John Longbowe, have cause–miserable cause enough, I warrant–to remember it, and my Lord can bear me out! For, spite of his fair speeches, when he was quit of the Royal presence, he threw me his wet and bedraggled cloak and bade me change it with him for mine own, which was dry and warm. And it was this simple act which wrought the lamentable and cruel deed of which I was the victim, for, as I followed my Lord, thus apparelled, across the ice, I was suddenly set upon and seized, a choke-pear clapt into my mouth so that I could not cry aloud, mine eyes bandaged, mine elbows pinioned at my side in that fatall cloak like to a trussed fowl, and so I was carried to where the ice was broken, and thrust into a boat. Thence I was conveyed in the same rude sort to a ship, dragged up her smooth, wet side, and clapt under hatches. Here I lay helpless as in a swoon. When I came to, it was with a great trampling on the decks above and the washing of waves below, and I made that the ship was moving–but where I knew not. After a little space the hatch was lifted from where I lay, the choke-pear taken from my mouth; but not the bandage from mine eyes, so I could see nought around me. But I heard a strange voice say: “What coil is this? This is my Lord’s cloak in sooth, but not my Lord that lieth in it! Who is this fellow?” At which I did naturally discover the great misprise of those varlets who had taken me for my dear Lord, whom I now damned in my heart for changing of the cloaks! Howbeit, when I had fetched my breath with difficulty, being well nigh spent by reason of the gag, I replyed that I was John Longbowe, my Lord’s true yeoman, as good a man as any, as they should presently discover when they set me ashore. That I knew– “Softly, friend,” said the Voice, “thou knowest too much for the good of England and too little for thine own needs. Thou shalt be sent where thou mayest forget the one and improve thy knowledge of the other.” Then as if turning to those about him, for I could not see by reason of the blindfold, he next said: “Take him on your voyage, and see that he escape not till ye are quit of England.” And with that they clapt to the hatch again, and I heard him cast off from the ship’s side. There was I, John Longbowe, an English yeoman,–I, who but that day had held converse with Will Shakespeare and been cognizant of the revels of Her Most Christian Majesty even to the spying of her garter!–I was kidnapped at the age of forty-five or thereabout– for I will not be certain of the year–and forced to sea for that my Lord of Southampton had provoked the jealousie and envy of divers other great nobles.



I marvel much at those who deem it necessary in the setting down of their adventures to gloze over the whiles between with much matter of the country, the peoples, and even their own foolish reflections thereon, hoping in this way to cozen the reader with a belief in their own truthfulness, and encrease the extravagance of their deeds. I, being a plain, blunt man, shall simply say for myself that for many days after being taken from the bilboes and made free of the deck, I was grievously distempered by reason of the waves, and so collapsed in the bowels that I could neither eat, stand, nor lie. Being thus in great fear of death, from which I was miraculously preserved, I, out of sheer gratitude to my Maker, did incontinently make oath and sign articles to be one of the crew– which were buccaneers. I did this the more readily as we were to attack the ships of Spayne only, and through there being no state of Warre at that time between England and that country, it was wisely conceived that this conduct would provoke it, and we should thus be forearmed, as became a juste man in his quarrel. For this we had the precious example of many great Captains. We did therefore heave to and burn many ships–the quality of those engagements I do not set forth, not having a seaman’s use of ship speech, and despising, as a plain, blunt man, those who misuse it, having it not.

But this I do know, that, having some conceit of a shipman’s ways and of pirates, I did conceive at this time a pretty song for my comradoes, whereof the words ran thus:–

Yo ho! when the Dog Watch bayeth loud In the light of a mid-sea moon!
And the Dead Eyes glare in the stiffening Shroud, For that is the Pirate’s noon!
When the Night Mayres sit on the Dead Man’s Chest Where no manne’s breath may come–
Then hey for a bottle of Rum! Rum! Rum! And a passage to Kingdom come!

I take no credit to myself for the same, except so far as it may shew a touch of my Lord of Southampton’s manner–we being intimate– but this I know, that it was much acclaimed by the crew. Indeed they, observing that the Captain was of a cruel nature, would fain kill him and put me in his stead, but I, objecting to the shedding of precious blood in such behoof, did prevent such a lamentable and inhuman action by stealthily throwing him by night from his cabbin window into the sea–where, owing to the inconceivable distance of the ship from shore, he was presently drowned. Which untoward fate had a great effect upon my fortunes, since, burthening myself with his goods and effects, I found in his chest a printed proclamation from an aged and infirm clergyman in the West of England covenanting that, for the sum of two crowns, he would send to whoso offered, the chart of an island of great treasure in the Spanish Main, whereof he had had confession from the lips of a dying parishioner, and the amount gained thereby he would use for the restoration of his parish church. Now I, reading this, was struck by a great remorse and admiration for our late Captain, for that it would seem that he was, like myself, a staunch upholder of the Protestant Faith and the Church thereof, as did appear by his possession of the chart, for which he had no doubt paid the two good crowns. As an act of penance I resolved upon finding the same island by the aid of the chart, and to that purpose sailed East many days, and South, and North, and West as many other days–the manner whereof and the latitude and longitude of which I shall not burden the reader with, holding it, as a plain, blunt man, mere padding and impertinence to fill out my narrative, which helpeth not the general reader. So, I say, when we sighted the Island, which seemed to be swarming with savages, I ordered the masts to be stripped, save but for a single sail which hung sadly and distractedly, and otherwise put the ship into the likeness of a forlorn wreck, clapping the men, save one or two, under hatches. This I did to prevent the shedding of precious blood, knowing full well that the ignorant savages, believing the ship in sore distress, would swim off to her with provisions and fruit, bearing no arms. Which they did, while we, as fast as they clomb the sides, despatched them at leisure, without unseemly outcry or alarms. Having thus disposed of the most adventurous, we landed and took possession of the island, finding thereon many kegs of carbuncles and rubies and pieces of eight–the treasure store of those lawless pirates who infest the seas, having no colour of war or teaching of civilisation to atone for their horrid deeds.

I discovered also, by an omission in the chart, that this was not the Island wot of by the good and aged Devonshire divine–and so we eased our consciences of accounting for the treasure to him. We then sailed away, arriving after many years’ absence at the Port of Bristol in Merrie England, where I took leave of the “Jolly Roger,” that being the name of my ship; it was a strange conceit of seamen in after years ever to call the device of my FLAG–to wit, a skull and bones made in the sign of a Cross–by the NAME my ship bore, and if I have only corrected the misuse of history by lying knaves, I shall be content with this writing. But alas! such are the uncertainties of time; I found my good Lord of Southampton dead and most of his friends beheaded, and the blessed King James of Scotland–if I mistake not, for these also be the uncertainties of time–on the throne. In due time I married Mistress Marian Straitways. I might have told more of trifling, and how she fared, poor wench! in mine absence, even to the following of me in another ship, in a shipboy’s disguise, and how I rescued her from a scheming Pagan villain; but, as a plain, blunt man, I am no hand at the weaving of puling love tales and such trifling diversions for lovesick mayds and their puny gallants–having only consideration for men and their deeds, which I have here set down bluntly and even at mine advanced years am ready to maintain with the hand that set it down.




Dan’l Borem poured half of his second cup of tea abstractedly into his lap.

“Guess you’ve got suthin’ on yer mind, Dan’l,” said his sister.

“Mor’n likely I’ve got suthin’ on my pants,” returned Dan’l with that exquisitely dry, though somewhat protracted humor which at once thrilled and bored his acquaintances. “But–speakin’ o’ that hoss trade”–

“For goodness’ sake, don’t!” interrupted his sister wearily; “yer allus doin’ it. Jest tell me about that young man–the new clerk ye think o’ gettin’.”

“Well, I telegraphed him to come over, arter I got this letter from him,” he returned, handing her a letter. “Read it out loud.”

But his sister, having an experienced horror of prolixity, glanced over it. “Far as I kin see he takes mor’n two hundred words to say you’ve got to take him on trust, and sez it suthin’ in a style betwixt a business circular and them Polite Letter Writers. I thought you allowed he was a tony feller.”

“Ef he does not brag much, ye see, I kin offer him small wages,” said Dan’l, with a wink. “It’s kinder takin’ him at his own figger.”

“And THAT mightn’t pay! But ye don’t think o’ bringin’ him HERE in this house? ‘Cept you’re thinkin’ o’ tellin’ him that yarn o’ yours about the hoss trade to beguile the winter evenings. I told ye ye’d hev to pay yet to get folks to listen to it.”

“Wrong agin–ez you’ll see! Wot ef I get a hundred thousand folks to pay me for tellin’ it? But, speakin’ o’ this young feller, I calkilated to send him to the Turkey Buzzard Hotel;” and he looked at his sister with a shrewd yet humorous smile.

“What!” said his sister in alarm. “The Turkey Buzzard! Why, he’ll be starved or pizoned! He won’t stay there a week.”

“Ef he’s pizoned to death he won’t be able to demand any wages; ef he leaves because he can’t stand it–it’s proof positive he couldn’t stand me. Ef he’s only starved and made weak and miserable he’ll be easy to make terms with. It may seem hard what I’m sayin’, but what seems hard on the other feller always comes mighty easy to you. The thing is NOT to be the ‘other feller.’ Ye ain’t listenin’. Yet these remarks is shrewd and humorous, and hez bin thought so by literary fellers.”

“H’m!” said his sister. “What’s that ye was jest sayin’ about folks bein’ willin’ to pay ye for tellin’ that hoss trade yarn o’ yours?”

“Thet’s only what one o’ them smart New York publishers allowed it was worth arter hearin’ me tell it,” said Dan’l dryly.

“Go way! You or him must be crazy. Why, it ain’t ez good as that story ’bout a man who had a balky hoss that could be made to go only by buildin’ a fire under him, and arter the man sells that hoss and the secret, and the man wot bought him tries it on, the blamed hoss lies down over the fire, and puts it out.”

“I’ve allus allowed that the story ye hev to tell yourself is a blamed sight funnier than the one ye’re listenin’ to,” said Dan’l. “Put that down among my sayin’s, will ye?”

“But your story was never anythin’ more than one o’ them snippy things ye see in the papers, drored out to no end by you. It’s